


The Night Will Always Pass.

by RedStarFiction



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Gallavich, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Love, M/M, night terror, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12031311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/pseuds/RedStarFiction
Summary: Just a quick one shot of Ian being protective of Mickey. Gallavich for life, yo! :)Shamelessly4Shameless on Tumblr.





	The Night Will Always Pass.

He wakes in the night with a gasping breath and sweat prickling his chest. His eyes are wide open, staring into the darkness and his heart is thudding painfully fast. Years of conditioning means that he keeps his mouth shut but he is taking rapid, shuddering breaths through his nose, getting as much air into his rigid body as possible.

He is in his bedroom but his eyes are not seeing the heavy metal posters on the walls or the various items he owns. He is seeing the dark concrete of the bunker and he knows that he is trapped inside it with something awful. He sits up and wraps his arms tight around his knees, making himself as small as possible. His entire body is trembling and his skin puckers with goose bumps.

He doesn’t dare move, the thing in the corner is staring at him with dead eyes in a ruined face that Mickey saw as he clung to his father’s arm, pushing backwards with his heels. He was shoved forward anyway, Terry’s massive hand pushing him roughly between the shoulder blades and then the door is slammed and he is alone with the terrible dead eyed thing in the dark.

It is what happens to fags. Mickey is lucky because if he wasn’t Terry’s son he wouldn’t be alive to scream.

The thing in the corner sits up and reaches for him and Mickey rests his head on his knees to avoid it’s gaze.

“Please, please … just fuckin’ let me out.”

He whimpers and then lifts his head and blinks as light floods his senses and a sweet, freckled face appears in front of him.

“Jesus! Mickey? Hey. Hey, you’re safe. It’s OK, Mick. I’m here.”

Mickey blinks again, relief rushes through his constricted chest but his brain hasn’t quite caught up with his heart and all Mickey can think to do is throw his arms around the young man who is stroking his shoulder and looking at him with such tender concern.

*

Ian wakes to the sound of whimpering coming from beside him. He lies still for a moment, trying to process the sound and realises with a start that it is coming from Mickey. He can hear laboured breathing but this isn’t the heavy breathing of jerking off in the night. He sits up, hastily shoving the blankets back and gropes for Mickey in the darkness.

“Please, please … just fuckin’ let me out.”

The hairs on the back of Ian’s neck stand up. It’s Mickey’s voice but smaller, more like a kid, and the tone is one of completely wretched misery, not anything like Mickey’s usual cocky drawl. Ian flicks the bedside lamp on and his heart leaps into his throat at the sight before him.

Mickey is sat up, staring right at Ian but clearly not seeing him, his face is twisted in fear, beads of sweat on his temples and upper lip that quake as Mickey’s body shakes. Ian reaches out and cautiously puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly.

“Jesus! Mickey? Hey. Hey, you’re safe. It’s OK, Mick. I’m here.”

There is a moment when confused relief flits across his face and then Mickey pitches forward and clings to Ian as if his very life depends on it. Ian enfolds him in his arms and rocks gently back and forth making soft hushing sounds, though Mickey is no longer making any noise at all. Ian’s own heart is pounding but he is trying to conceal his distress, trying to be as strong and stable as Mickey needs him to be.

Suddenly Mickey pushes himself upright, thumping his chest with one hand, his face bleached of all colour and his soft mouth has formed a painful grimace

“I can’t fuckin breathe … I can’t … I …”

He pushes Ian out of the way and stumbles, naked, from the room. Ian tugs his shorts on, counts slowly to thirty to give Mickey a moment and then grabs the blanket from the bed and follows him outside.

Mickey is leaning against the railing when Ian steps out of the front door, his head bowed low between his splayed arms and Ian can hear the ragged sound of his breathing, fast but under control now. His legs are shaking, the thick muscle of his thighs quivering and twitching in the thin yellow light from the streetlamps.

“Go back inside.”

Mickey’s voice is hoarse and he doesn’t look up. Ian shakes his head and takes up watch on the other side of the porch.

“I’m staying right here.”

“Go back to fuckin’ bed, Ian!”

His tone is softer than the words he uses, almost pleading.

“No, Mick. I’m staying with you.”

Ian does not say anything further and the night is silent except for the occasional wail of sirens and the sound of distant breaking glass. He knows what it costs Mickey to be seen like this and he is respectful of it, but he will not leave him alone.

When the worst of the tremors stop coursing through Mickey’s body, Ian then steps forward and carefully drapes the blanket around his shoulders, careful not to touch Mickey in anyway.

“Better?”

He doesn’t expect and answer but Mickey manages to nod and pushes himself upright with one final shudder, wrapping the blanket more securely around his shoulders.

“Yeah. Fuck. I thought I was havin’ a fucking heart attack. Sorry.”

The apology is bashful and Mickey can’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with Ian, not yet.

“It’s alright. It was a panic attack, I think.”

Ian keeps his voice low and level. He desperately wants to pull Mickey into his arms but refrains from doing so, giving him space.

“Was it? Shit.”

Mickey is still too shaken to deny it and just continues to stare out across the junkyard alley. Ian takes a deep breath and steps in close behind him, carefully smoothing the black hair that has tumbled forward back behind Mickey’s ear. It is a small touch, gentle and intimate but measured and Ian is ready to step back if Mickey gives any sign that it is unwelcome.

Instead of pulling away, Mickey turns his head to kiss the inside of Ian’s wrist. It is a completely unexpected reaction and Ian feels a warmth spread through his chest. A month, maybe even a week ago, Mickey would never have done that.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Ian’s words seem to pull Mickey out of his trance and with a definite shake of his head; he turns and walks past Ian, going back into the house. Ian follows him in and they both sit down on the edge of the bed as Mickey snatches up a packet of cigarettes from the floor. His fingers are shaking as he tries to get one out and he curses softly at the packet, but Ian does not offer to help, he knows Mickey will want to do it himself.

“Was it a nightmare or a memory?”

“Fuckin’ both. I don’t know.”

Mickey finally gets one of the cigarettes free and lights it with a satisfied sigh, smoke curling up around his head as he exhales through his nose.

“Was it …”

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

There is warning in his voice and his eyebrows have raised in a way that Ian recognises as Mickey being close to the end of his patience.

“OK. But it might help to.”

“Leave it, Ian! Jesus! Just … fuckin’ leave it.”

His voice is terse, irritated and Ian can feel the closeness of the minute before slipping away from them. Mickey is retreating into himself and pushing whatever the Hell just surfaced as far down as he can get it. Ian wonders how many times this has happened to Mickey before, with no one there in the darkness to help him through.

He considers pushing it, trying one more time to get Mickey to talk, but another look at the tense set of his boyfriend’s shoulders convinces him that Mickey has been through enough tonight. There is no need to make him live through it again.

Instead Ian climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind Mickey and places his hands flat against his broad, pale shoulders, massaging in slow circles until the muscles beneath his fingers begin to loosen and he hears a satisfied grunt.

“You’re good at that.”

“Thank you.”

Ian smiles and places a kiss between Mickey’s shoulder blades, then another on either shoulder, left and then right. He sees the curve of Mickey’s cheek lift in a small smile and lets his hands slip down over Mickey’s arms, stroking the softly sculpted muscles.

“You feel real fucking good, Mick. You know that?”

A small snort of laughter is all that greets this but Ian knows he is pleased with the compliment.

“Come back to bed?”

“Nah, man. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Mickey stands up but Ian catches his hand and tugs him back. He can let Mickey keep his silence if that is what he wants but he will not let him sleep alone.

“Don’t. I want you here with me.”

This earns him a crooked smile and even though he is still looking toward the bedroom door uncertainly, Mickey’s resolve is weakening.

“You sure? I … don’t normally sleep so well after … that. I don’t wanna keep you up.”

“You won’t. Besides I don’t sleep at all when I’m not beside you.”

Ian shrugs and settles himself back, taking Mickey’s usual position beside the wall and patting the mattress beside him

“C’mere.”

Mickey hesitates a moment longer before giving in and settling back beside Ian, lying on his back, his hands folded neatly on his chest not quite touching his boyfriend. Ian can see him chewing on his lower lip and the crease between his brows and knows that he is afraid to go back to sleep. He also knows that Mickey will die before admitting that, even to Ian.

“You mind if we keep the light on? I wanna see you a bit longer.”

It is not a lie and it does not sound forced and Ian can see gratitude flash briefly across Mickey’s face as he nods.

“Yeah. Course we can.”

Wordlessly, Ian gathers Mickey to him. It is a bit like trying to move a mannequin at first but slowly, cautiously, Mickey wraps his arms around Ian and accepts the shelter of his embrace, tucking his head up beneath Ian’s chin and sighing against his chest as Ian runs his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck.

“You want me to move my ass? I’m crushin’ you.”

Mickey asks after a little while, his voice is thick with sleep and Ian kisses the top of his head, never pausing his gentle stroking.

“Keep your ass still. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He whispers and a few moments later hears Mickey’s breathing deepen and fall into a steady rhythm. Ian sleeps lightly that night, ready to be whatever Mickey needs him to be and to protect him from whatever terrors the night holds.

At some point in the night, Mickey rolls over, wrapping his arms around his pillow and half burying his face in it, his usual way of hunkering down in deep sleep and Ian rolls with him, keeping his chest flush to Mickey’s back and his arms lightly slung across his torso, his nose just touching the black waves of Mickey’s hair.

That is how Mickey wakes up in the morning and the first thing he does is smile.


End file.
